I’m in the back of a Lyft heading east across Los Angeles on the 110 and my heart is beating like a fucked clock. I feel like I’m coming up. I’m rushing so hard I have a sudden, overwhelming urge to start gibbering. The only other person in the car is the driver. I feel I should explain myself.
“Ever heard of a drug called Katy?” I say slightly too loud over his right shoulder, interrupting a story he’s telling. Something about hooking up with a drunk passenger.
“No, never,” he replies, shaking his blonde haystack of hair without taking his eyes off the road. “What is it?”